A new historical novel from Serena Burdick,
the author of THE GIRLS WITH NO NAMES, based on the true story of Estelita
Rodriguez, a Cuban-born Hollywood actress and singer, as her daughter Nina
traces her mother's life from Cuba to Hollywood to understand her mysterious
death, think NEXT YEAR IN HAVANA meets THE SEVEN HUSBANDS OF EVELYN HUGO.
Author: Serena Burdick
Cuba, 1936: When Estelita Rodriguez sings in a hazy Havana nightclub for the very first time, she is nine years old. From then on, that spotlight of adoration—from Havana to New York’s Copacabana and then Hollywood—becomes the one true accomplishment no one can take from her. Not the 1933 Cuban Revolution that drove her family into poverty. Not the revolving door of husbands and the fickle world of film. Not even the tragic devastation of Castro’s revolution that rained down on her loved ones.
Thirty years later, her young adult daughter, Nina Rodriguez, is blindsided by her mother’s mysterious, untimely death. Seeking answers no one else wants to hear, the grieving Nina navigates the troubling, opulent memories of their life together and discovers how much Estelita sacrificed to live the American dream on her own terms.
Based on true events and exclusive interviews with the real Nina Rodriguez, Find Me in Havana weaves two unforgettable voices into one extraordinary journey that explores the unbreakable bond between mother and child, and the ever-changing landscape of self-discovery.
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One
Big Sur, 1966
CLIFFS
Mother,
In August, Big Sur crackles with drought. Grass dries to a
crisp and turns gold as ember. Rattlers lay in wait. Fat insects purr, and
banana slugs languish. The air is ripe with eucalyptus, their slender, green leaves
blanketing the canyon paths. Poison oak claws the hillside. This is not the
season of lemons trees or emerald hills or crisp sunshine. Summer on the coast
is a season of bone-chilling fog.
Overlooking
the Pacific, I stand on Nepenthe’s stone patio, the restaurant’s windows
spilling light around me as I watch the gray mass of fog crawl and heave up the
cliff. You would have liked it here, Mom, but we never drove up the coast
together. We never had the chance. I close my eyes as the fog settles over me,
damp and soft as a whisper. Below, the surf thunders against the rocks, and I
feel the sway of the sea in my legs and picture myself stepping over the low
stone wall and lifting my arms into the air. The ocean will catch me, release
me, hollow out my body and wash it up on the shore like an empty shell.
I need a
shell. Hard skin. A barrier against the world of missing you.
How is there
no you left? No Mom. No Wife. No Movie Actress. No Singer. There are
photographs, and moving pictures where you swing your hips and make funny
faces, but I cannot touch or smell or feel or speak to this two-dimensional
version.
I want an
explanation.
Memories root
and twist inside me, blossom, grow thorns, beautiful and gnarled, but the truth
remains hidden, and I am left with the image of the bathroom floor and the
weight of you in my arms.
I do not want
this to be our last memory.
Opening my
eyes, I take a deep breath, let the cool wetness lie over my tongue. Next to
me, a fire crackles in the open hearth warming one side of my leg. I think how
outdoor fires do this, warm only one side of you while the other side freezes.
I wear a short skirt without pantyhose, white tennis shoes and a tight, knit
sweater. The guests have all gone, the movie stars and bohemian artists, the
former donning glitter and fur, the latter beads and loose-folding fabric, each
hoping to authenticate themselves in originality. Each failing.
“Nina?” I
jump at the sound of my manager’s voice. He stands in the open patio doorway of
the restaurant polishing a wineglass. “Your ride is here.”
He looks at
me kindly, unconcerned. He doesn’t know anything about me. I feel the warmth of
the fire on my backside and think how cold it will be in the hollowed-out
redwood tree where I sleep.
“I’ll just
wipe down the tables,” I say, stalling. I don’t want to face my ride any more
than I want to face the cold night on the forest floor with the insects.
My manager is
a slender, vigorous man who looks as if he’s been breathing ocean air since
birth. “It’s late,” he smiles. “You go on home now. I’ll take care of the
tables.”
Walking away
from the restaurant, the stone path slick with moisture, I dig my doll from the
bottom of my bag and tuck her under one arm. She has a cloth body and a plastic
head with blue eyes that open and close when you tilt her. Her plastic head is
dotted with dark holes where her carefully arranged hair used to be. On her
stomach is a scar—held together with a safety pin—from the time I cut her open
and pulled out the stuffing.
Bret waits in
his mint-green Volvo with the engine running. He is smoking a joint and doesn’t
open the door for me. I slide into the passenger seat and he leans over and
gives me a sloppy kiss, his hand pressed to the back of my head as if this is
something romantic. His tongue tastes of stale smoke and alcohol. “Hey, baby,”
he breathes into my face and passes me the joint. I take it, inhale and try to
stifle a cough as Bret maneuvers the car onto the dark road.
We met five
months ago when I first arrived in Big Sur. My friend Delia and I had eaten a
handful of mushrooms and were dancing around a bonfire at a beach party when
Bret slipped into the wavy, illuminated light of my vision. His embroidered
shirt rippled over his chest and I thought he was something supernatural. The
next morning when I woke up beside him on the beach, he’d turned solid. He was
nothing more than a thin-chested man with a tangled beard and skinny legs
sticking out from his cutoff jean shorts.
Bret hooks
the car around a sharp bend, and the wheels kick up gravel that makes a sound
like thunder under our feet.
“You’re going
too fast,” I say, pressing my hand flat against the passenger window.
He grins and
steps on the gas, a man who likes to challenge a woman. This is familiar to me.
I watched men challenge you your whole life, each one of your four husbands, in
their own way, pushing you to the edge. Despite your effort to understand them,
to please them, it was, in the end, your unwillingness to be controlled or
possessed that got you killed.
The car takes
another corner, and the cliff drops to my right at a precarious angle where
sumac and sagebrush cling to the edge. People love Highway 1 for its beauty.
They think it cuts a benevolent path along the ocean cliff for our pleasure.
What I see is a snake luring us with its curvaceous body, a thing of nature
waiting for us to step on it so it can strike and fling us off.
I squish my
doll’s head in, making her face look like something in a distorting mirror. “I
don’t want to do this anymore,” I say, watching the doll’s features slowly
inflate and pop back into place.
Bret’s
profile remains neutral, his eyes on the road as he reaches over and strokes my
thigh. “Don’t be like that, baby. This is good.”
I’ve tried to
break up with him before. I don’t know why he won’t let me go, or how he can
feel anything for me when I feel nothing inside. After your death, they sedated
me because I was angry and didn’t behave properly. Now, I do what I can to
sedate myself.
“I mean it.
I’m done.” I shove his hand away, and this makes him angry.
He puts both
hands on the wheel, grips it with white knuckles, his eyes forward, his jaw
clenched. “What the fuck, Nina?” he says.
The
headlights strike the road. Yellow lines blink past like winking eyes.
His anger
scares me. “I’m sorry,” I say. I’m not good at this. Charming men. Giving them
what they want. Doing what I watched you do, for the good ones and the bad. You
appeased the good men, hoping they’d stay with you; placated the bad ones,
hoping they wouldn’t hurt you. With each husband you tried a little harder,
stayed a little longer, so certain you’d get it right.
If Bret is
any indication, I won’t get it right, either. Looking at him, his hard profile
reflected in the dashboard lights, his scruffy beard and long hair curling at
the base of his neck, he reminds me of the rebel soldiers in Cuba.
This is not a
memory I want. “Bret, I really can’t do this. Please, pull over. I need to get
out.”
“You don’t know what you need.”
The arrogance in his voice disgusts me, the anger I’d been
tamping down with drugs is now rising in my throat. For all his meditating and
chanting and seeking enlightenment, Bret is a prick. I am twenty years old, you
are dead, and there’s no one to tell me what to do anymore. You are not here to
laugh it away, or tell me to chin-up, to silence me or put me in a mental
institution or stick me in a boarding school. “Fuck you, Bret!” I shout. “Pull
over. I want to get out.”
“Fuck me?” He speeds up, swerves the car near the shoulder of
the road, gravel and dirt hitting my window and ricocheting off the glass like
buckshot.
I suck in my breath and grip the door handle. “Don’t do that!”
“Do what? This?” He swerves again, and all I see, for a
moment, is empty, black space.
What I should do is calm him down, convince him I’m sorry and
that I won’t break up with him. Stop the car, and we’ll talk about it, I
should say, but a part of me wants him to do something drastic. To pull the
trigger for me.
We are crossing Bixby Bridge. The fog has receded, and I can
see all the way down to the dark strip of beach where the waves crash and foam
like a giant frothing at the mouth. I know, in that split second right before
Bret takes us over the edge, that he’s going to do it. It’s not the plunge into
water I’d imagined on the patio at Nepenthe. I am not sailing peacefully off
the cliff with my arms out but trapped in a metal box that jerks to the right
so abruptly my head smacks the window. I expect free fall, silence, stillness,
but the air is sharp and compact and splintered with glass.
And then you are in my arms, your face flushed, your dark hair
limp on your wet forehead, vomit ringing the corners of your mouth. “Help me,”
I plead, even though you are the one dying. “Don’t go,” I cry. “I need you,”
but I have already hit bottom, and the world has gone quiet.
Excerpted
from Find Me in Havana by Serena Burdick, Copyright © 2021 by Serena Burdick. Published by Park Row Books.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Serena Burdick graduated from The American Academy of Dramatic Arts in California before moving to New York City to pursue a degree in English Literature at Brooklyn College. Author of the International Bestseller THE GIRLS WITH NO NAMES and GIRL IN THE AFTERNOON, she lives in Western Massachusetts with her husband and two sons.
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